


All Weeds to Flowers

by voleuse



Category: Sliders
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-17
Updated: 2009-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Piece by piece they shipped my body to this country</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Weeds to Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 1.04. Title and summary adapted from Jessica Care Moore's _Black Statue of Liberty_.

There wasn't a moment of revelation, or a lightning bolt of resentment. The realization came to Rembrandt in pieces: He wasn't getting home anytime soon.

One morning, he watched Quinn fiddle with the timer, each spark and zing prodding hope inside him. "How's it going, Q-ball?" He crumbled his English muffin between his fingers.

Quinn nudged a wire aside, then groaned and set his tweezers down. "Same as usual. Nowhere."

"Right." Rembrandt felt a yell build in his throat, then Quinn twitched back. Rembrandt watched his hands tremble, watched his jaw grind. He sighed, and he offered Quinn a smile. "Maybe later, right?"

Quinn nodded, and he stared down at the timer. "Yeah. Maybe later."

One afternoon, they fled from a gang of wannabe Stormtroopers, sliding down into the sewers in order to escape. The professor leaned against the wall, a grimace spilling over his face.

"You all right?" Rembrandt asked. He kept an eye on the kids ahead of them, heard Wade echo his question.

The professor scowled. "Winded, perhaps." He clutched at his right side. "How do you manage to hold up so well?"

"I'm a singer, remember?" He chuckled, because it was hard enough to remember himself, sometimes. "Great lungs are part of the package."

"Hey," Quinn called out, his voice hushed, "we should keep moving."

Rembrandt extended his arm. "Good idea."

The professor eyed Rembrandt's hand, then snorted. "I'm not decrepit," he snapped, pushing off the wall.

"Never said you were," Rembrandt replied. They started running again, and Rembrandt flanked the group. Every few yards, he turned his head, and listened for pursuit.

One night, he woke from a nightmare to the sound of sniffling. He sat up slowly, mindful of rustling against their tent's walls. He squinted, let his eyes adjust to the filtered moonlight, and found one sleeping bag empty.

Rembrandt crept out of the tent, crouching to avoid unnecessary detection. The night was quiet, but he'd seen the raptors swoop down before--his nightmare came back to him, vivid, and he almost turned back.

Someone hiccuped, and he turned his head, found the expected silhouette. "Wade?"

She flinched, then ducked low. "Rembrandt? Did I wake you?"

"It's all right." He made his way forward, put his hand on the ground to steady himself. "It's not safe out here."

"I know," she murmured. "It's stupid. I just didn't want-- I didn't want them to hear me."

He settled beside her, his gaze to the horizon. "I think they'd understand, sweetheart." He patted her arm, despite the awkward angle.

"I know," she repeated, then she leaned against him. "Thanks, Rembrandt."

He put an arm around her and let the silence settle around them for a second. Then he sighed. "Now can we get back in the tent before some giant bird eats us?"

Wade let out a breath of laughter, and he felt her nod against his shoulder. "Probably a good idea."

A bird's cry shivered through the air, and together, they crawled back into the tent.

Maybe it happened in a day, or maybe it took weeks. All Rembrandt knew was, somewhere between the prisons and the plagues and the parties, he learned to look at these three strangers, and he found them calling him _friend_.


End file.
